t
it. The difficulty is, not to remember. Every instant I catch myself
in the act of thinking about Aniela, and I have to remind myself
that she is changed now, that her feelings will be going, have gone
already, into another direction, and that I am nothing to her now.

Formerly I preferred not to think of my wrecked condition, because my
brain could not stand the thought; now I do it sometimes on purpose,
if only to defend myself against the voice that calls out: "Is it her
fault? and how do you know what is passing in her heart? She would not
be a woman if she did not love her own child when it comes into the
world, but who told you that she is not as unhappy as you are?" At
times it seems to me that she is even more unhappy, and then I wish
for another inflammation of the lungs. Life with such a chaos of
thoughts is impossible.

30 October.

With my returning health I am gradually drifting back into the magic
circle. The doctor says that in a few days I shall be able to travel.
I will go hence, for it is too near Warsaw and Ploszow. It may be one
of my nervous whims, but I feel I shall be better and more at rest in
Rome on the Babuino. I do not promise myself to forget the past; on
the contrary, I shall think of it from morning until night, but the
thoughts will be like unto meditations behind cloister walls. Besides,
what can I know of how it will be? All I know is that I cannot remain
here any longer. I shall call upon Angeli by the way; I must have her
portrait at Rome.

2 November.

I leave Berlin, I renounce Rome, and go back to Ploszow. I wrote some
time ago that Aniela is not only the beloved woman, but the very
crown of my head. Yes, it is a fact; let it be called by any
name,--neurosis, or an old man's madness; I have got it in my blood
and in my soul.

I am going to Ploszow. I will serve her, take care of her, do for her
what I can; and for all reward let me be able to look at her. I wonder
at myself that I fancied I should be able to live without seeing her.
One letter from my aunt brought out all that was buried within me. My
aunt says:--

"I did not write much about us, because I had nothing cheerful to tell
you; and as I am not clever at disguising things, I feared I should
make you uneasy, knowing that you were not well. I am in terrible
anxiety about Kromitzki, and should like to have your advice.
Chwastowski showed me his son's letter, in which he says that
Kromitzki's affairs are in